Her Final Farewell

Just as dawn broke, I was already in my kitchen with a cup of tea and Jo, who sometimes comes to get my hair pinned up for an event. We were chatting whilst the pins went in, about the extraordinary moment in history we were all living through and she started to cry. “Jo, what on earth is the matter?” I asked, “I feel like my granny has died.” She said.

A little later as I drove my mother to the Queen’s funeral, I asked how she was feeling. “Acceptance” said my mother “I feel acceptance”.

The roads to London were empty, this had been declared an official bank holiday. We would arrive at the Queen’s Gallery, as requested by the Lord Chamberlain, in plenty of time, and we needed time, 93-year-old knees were not what they used to be. But once in London it was madness, every road we tried to take was blocked by police, security or armed forces. I pleaded to be let through, but these were reinforced blockades, apparently, there was no way past. 

We finally found a policeman who was able to inch open a mobile barrier once he heard the growing panic in my voice as I frantically showed him the official passes.

“We are now going to abandon the car and make a dash on foot,” I told my mother. She remained the epitome of calm. We must have made a startling sight, mother and daughter dressed in full mourning with jewels, hats and gloves, one in a wheelchair, the other pushing in heels, running down Royal Mews as fast as they could go…